


I'm Not A Spaceman (No, No, No)

by TLvop



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alien Culture, Aliens, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Not Serious, Post-Avengers (2012), Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:26:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TLvop/pseuds/TLvop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint worries about what Natasha will think. Not because he's an alien, but because he's kept it from her.</p><p>Natasha <em>hates</em> secrets she doesn't already know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not A Spaceman (No, No, No)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from tumblr to write aliens from Betelgeuse. Prompt was based off of Ford Prefect, but I ignored the actual facts of Hitchhiker Universe in-fic :).

Clint finally decides to tell her over dinner. That is, he decides over dinner, not tells her. It'll probably ruin her appetite, and also he'd like to enjoy what she made just in case he isn't allowed back.

He wouldn't really blame her. Not because he's an alien; the Betelgeuse system might not be Asgard, but there's nothing particularly weird about him compared to human physiology except for some food allergies and breaking out around wood varnish. Mostly because he's kept it from her. Natasha _hates_ secrets she doesn't know.

Once he's finished washing up the dishes, he dries his hands on his jeans and walks into the family room, where Natasha is sprawled out on the sofa and reading a book. She lifts her legs, as an invitation to join her and be used as a resting spot, and he very deliberately sits on the coffee table instead. Natasha tilts her head, then draws her legs in, setting her book aside as she sits.

"What's up?" She's watching him carefully.

He attempts a smile, and mostly succeeds. She returns it, as if she doesn't notice the 'mostly,' which is nice of her. "So, uh," he says. "Don't freak out?" He doesn't wait for her reply, because he knows it – she's already arching her eyebrows somewhere between concerned and 'I'll reserve my right to freak out'—and keeps going. "I've been thinking, since – Him – that… it's not really fair, how I know a lot of your secrets but I'm pretty closed on mine."

"Well," Natasha says, having relaxed slightly but not reassuringly. "That's not really how secrets work."

"Yeah, but wouldn't life make more sense if it was?" He rubs the back of his neck. "I'm not American," is where he starts, gaze flicking between her and the throw pillow at her side. "I'm, um – I'm not, like, from Asgard or anything. I'm from the neighborhood," he hesitates then adds, tone a little uncertain: "sort of."

"There's a pretty big gap between American and Asgardian," Natasha says, and she draws the throw pillow into her lap, wrapping her arms around it.

Clint laughs, quietly. "Yeah. How good are you on astronomy?"

Natasha shrugs.

"Okay. The constellation Orion has a few stars in it, and one of them's Betelgeuse," he says, and rubs the back of his neck. "Uh, you know how San Francisco has basically sprawled out to take over the whole bay area? That's how the Betelgeuse system is, technically I'm not even in it at all, but my star's close enough and only has the one planet, and we're pretty – we export fish," he ends on. "And shitty TV show equivalents. Jersey Shore is really actually pretty good, compared to the stuff we make."

Natasha's outright staring at him with disbelief now. "You've got to be kidding me."

She says it mostly to herself, but Clint decides to answer anyway because it's on-topic. "No. I mean, I can see why you think it, and I have a pretty huge lack of evidence in my favor, because I kind of burnt everything the first time I saw a thing on vivisection." He's unable to keep from wincing, at that. "Even though that was definitely a B movie, but I'd already burnt it. Uh. Just a second."

He stands up, walks to the kitchen, and grabs one of the lemon halves Nat used for dinner. It has enough juice left in it for his demonstration. He rolls up his sleeve, and Natasha leans in to watch as he liberally rubs the lemon over the inner part of his fore-arm, biting his lip at the sting. He watches Nat, as his tattoo starts to show up; he knows it'll look like angry welts streaked with blue to her, and he doesn't want to freak her out.

Instead her eyebrows start to raise, and she covers her mouth as she laughs with disbelief. He's not really sure what to make of that, until she says: "You fucking city slicker," in a language Clint hasn't heard in years, accent heavy with the marshlands.

"What," Clint says, in English, staring at her. He sets the lemon down, resting back on his hands. Then, in the same language she spoke, adds: "Seriously? People crash in Russia now?"

"Some of us came here on purpose," Nat says, eyes glinting with amusement. Then, back in English: "Well, mostly just me. It didn't seem like the sort of place the feds would look."

"No," he agrees, staring at her.

After a moment, he starts laughing helplessly; soon after, Natasha joins in.


End file.
